


Whisperer

by Mado



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics), falcon and wintersoldier
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mado/pseuds/Mado
Summary: “Don't you lock your door?” Bucky says in lieu of a greeting, grey murder-stare zeroing in on Hellstrom in an instant.  He hip-checks the door closed behind him.“Don't you knock?” Clint huffs back, rising to his feet as the cat skitters off at the appearance of yet another dog, vanishing somewhere beneath his beat-up couch.“I knocked.” Daimon supplies with a showy smile, rounding on Bucky like they're two roosters in what promises to be a cockfight.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	Whisperer

**Author's Note:**

> This was for a prompt a million years ago that I didn't finish and has been rotting. :( I figured I'd share the progress because why not?

There's broken glass sparkling in the heavy shag of the carpet, reflecting the light spilling in from the electronic billboards and street lamps- illuminated further by the still falling snow because everything seems that much brighter in the winter. Even in the middle of the night.

He can still hear the clunking of Barnes' boots racing down the fire escape, crunching and clanking on ice and groaning metal until it fades and all he can pick up is the sound of the blood racing in his own ears, his breath harsh but slowing as the rush of adrenaline seeps out of him. Still, he can't let his guard down.

Clint's eyes stay locked on the open bathroom door, bow loose in his hand with his fingers trembling against the grip. He can't unsee what he knows is in there, the evidence like a Pollock painting in splashes of red against the door frame and yellowing linoleum. He should have braced himself before he walked in. Recognized the signs from the previous crime scenes, from all the horrors they'd witnessed before.

It doesn't make it easier.

It hadn't slowed him down. Hopeful that maybe, for once, they'd made it in time.

“ _I lost him.”_ Clint almost flinches at the sound of Barnes' voice filtered through the com in his ear, almost too loud after everything has been so _so_ quiet. He blames that on the snow too.

“ _Any possible witnesses?”_ Wilson's voice is softer, or maybe he's just ready for the broken silence this time.

Clint starts to shake his head as if either of his team could see him, then something moves, small and fast past his peripheral, and he turns, nocking an arrow as he twists on his heel. Exhales.

There's a cat, striped orange with white paws and narrowed yellow eyes, crouching below the entertainment center, fur puffed and tail swishing in irritation, growl low and uncertain.

“Aw kitty no.” He lowers his bow, then reaches up to touch his earpiece in response. “Not unless you can talk to cats like you can with birds.”

Bucky snorts and Sam grunts out an almost amused sound, he can tell the difference between them because Barnes is breathing a little heavy from the chase and Wilson is still airborne, the wind whipping soft and subtle past his own com.

Clint is on his knees by the entertainment center, catching a brief glance of his own stricken expression in reflection on the small flat-screen TV before he reaches for the cat. It bats at his gloved hand half-hearted, doing little damage against the supple leather across his palm, stopping only when it realizes he's offering his bare fingers to sniff-- Which it does after a moment, pink nose twitching and hackles lowering before finally bumping its face against his knuckles.

“Yeah I know bud, it's been a pretty rough night, huh?” He curls his fingers to scratch beneath the cat's chin, winning a chirping purr in response. The cat's sweet, just scared, and Clint's heart aches a little for it. There's no way it can understand what just happened. How much it's life will change. Because there's a cooling body in the bathroom and blood on the floor and no one left to fill the green plastic food bowl by the space heater.

“ _Actually, you know what? There's an idea.”_ Wilson finally speaks again after the span of minutes had stretched too long and he can hear Barnes' making his way up the fire escape again. By then Clint has settled down criss-cross and the cat's settled its way in his lap and he knows the rumbling purr under his fingers is more of an anxious effort to soothe it's-self rather than the pleasure of the archer's big palm stroking along it's back. He read it on the internet somewhere. It's a bit like smiling even when you're distraught. Still, he hopes the petting helps.

It becomes clear after a minute that Sam isn't going to elaborate so he clears his throat and lifts his head as Bucky steps back in through the broken window.

“What's an idea?” He tries to ignore the way that Barnes' face goes a little soft when he spots him, something warm flip-flopping in his stomach and he turns his eyes away, focusing instead on the sharp claws kneading into the fabric of his tactical pants.

“ _There was a dog at the last scene, yeah? Some poodle?”_

“Bichon” Clint corrects without thinking, and okay he only knows this because Detective Floof had guest-starred on an episode of Dog Cops a few weeks ago. A gritty aging Bichon who was constantly underestimated due to his sweet and innocent looks.

“ _Anyway_.” Sam continues as if he hadn't been interrupted. _“If I can communicate with birds it isn't so far fetched to think that there isn't someone out there that can speak with other animals. We might have our witnesses yet.”_

“Sure, yeah,” Clint replies, feeling snarky and defensive if only because of the stress of the situation. Because there's a corpse in the other room and half a dozen more in the morgue while they've been chasing their tails over the last week. “we'll just put an ad out in the paper. 'does your dog talk to you? Does your chinchilla hold the secrets of the universe?' “

Sam rises to it, but only just- because he's as tired and frustrated as the rest of them. Clint feels the heat of guilt the moment Falcon calmly says-- “ _You got a better idea, Hawk?”_ Instead of snapping. He would have snapped.

Bucky casts a shadow over him, knees popping as he crouches down eye level, the cat in his lap tenses as if it wants to flee, ears flattened back, but Clint's heavy hand keeps it in place, soothing in favor of restraining and slowly it calms again, accepting the new offer of outstretched fingers.

“Shh shh shh.” Clint murmurers, his blunt nails scraping down between orange shoulder-blades. “You're okay, Buck is good people.”

Then he says, touching the com in his ear. “Okay so how do we go about this then?”

He'll concede to Falcon's plan, to his lead, because of all of them Wilson still has his shit together, has filled the biggest shoes and excelled at doing so. Clint trusts him. Barnes trusts him... and that's something.

“ _You've got a lot of connections in the Mutant community yeah? We can start by asking Wolverine or Beast?”_ Falcon pauses and Clint can tell by the way his breathing slows that he's landed somewhere.

“ _Maybe magic? We could talk with Strange...Wanda?”_

“Or Wiccan.” Bucky supplies, his fingers stroking over velvety fur where the cat has made its way half between Clint's lap and into his own, it's back arched and body stretched in a way that seems impossibly long like it could take up as much or as little space as it wanted.

Clint thinks about it, tilts his head back and huffs out a sigh, trying to decide on which explanation will sound the least insane when he tries to explain that he needs the help of house pets because Hawkeye, the god damn Winter Soldier and the Falcon can't manage to catch one measly serial killer.

Barnes is leading him right though, it's somehow less embarrassing to ask a teenager for help than bothering the other bona fide superheroes over something that should seem so trivial. They've fought Gods for Christ-sake. Aliens, demons, horrors from other worlds, robots, clones... everything in-between.

“Sure, I'll ask around.” Clint feels old if he's the Avenger with the most connections. He doesn't think to take pride in it instead.

He's back at his apartment before he calls Kate up, watching the ginger cat and Lucky square off across the room. The dog just wants to play, body loose and easy, tongue lolling as he drops his chest and perks his ears, completely oblivious to the danger of teeth and claws just out of reach.

Kate answers after too many rings but just before it hits voice mail, her tone bored and bordering on the sort of inflection that is just 'young adult defiance' and not really annoyed. “No one uses their phone as a phone anymore, Clint. You could have just texted me.”

Clint smiles despite himself because she's his favorite; no matter what mood he's in or the situation, he has nothing but fondness and love for Kate Bishop. She's pretty much the best.

“Fair, but I've got a lot of words and it'd take too long with my thumbs.” That wasn't really a coherent sentence but she'd understand.

And she does, with a sigh, like she has better things to do this late at night.

“Shoot, Hawkeye.”

“I need some magic help, you and Kaplan still in touch?” Because he knows from experience that some days are better than others and just because you're thick as thieves with someone one day, doesn't mean they owe you shit the next. Or maybe Clint just has some deep-rooted abandonment issues.

“Sure, in fact, we're about to go get latte and gossip about boys. Wanna come?”

“Yes?” He says before he realizes she's still in LA and probably just fucking with him. Wait, what time is it in LA? He counts back on his fingers.

It still gets a fond laugh from her, she's probably shaking her head. “I'll shoot him a text, what sort of 'magic help' do you need?”

“I need to talk to a cat.”

“... sorry what?”

“And maybe a dog. It's for a case. They're very important witnesses.”

“A case? What are you, a detective now? Wait! I'm a detective, do you need any help?”

“I'm asking you for help right now Kate. Also I thought you were in the PI business.”

“Detective. Private Investigator. Same difference.” It really isn't, but he doesn't say that.

“Could you please just ask him?”

“I already did.”

“While I was on the phone with you?”

“Hello, millennial, multi-tasking is pretty much the only way we survive.”

He smartly doesn't try to argue that either.

There's a clatter from the kitchen and he steps backward to look, his brain convincing him that he can't move too far from where he's made a phone-call even though he hasn't used a phone with a cord in years. God he's tired.

“Hey, Lucky, no!” Lucky has his nose in the peanut butter jar that clearly had recently been knocked from the counter. The cat perched by the coffee pot, cleaning it's paw smugly now that it found a way to distract it's excitable canine stalker.

“Sorry Hawkeye, I gotta go. Let me know about the thing, loveyoubye.” He tosses his phone for a soft landing on the couch and sock-slides across the kitchen floor to snatch up the half eaten jar of Jiffy. He knows peanut-butter isn't bad for dogs, but he doesn't know if Lucky has like... a nut allergy or something and he just wants to be a good dog dad. Also, that was going to be his breakfast.

“Dogs don't have nut allergies, do they?” He asks the cat as he peers mournfully down at the jar in his hand, then looks to Lucky who is still trying to lick the last bit off his muzzle, mouth smacking.

The cat doesn't answer.

“Do you need a glass of milk?” Does he even have milk? He checks the fridge, finding only condiments and a few bottles of some hipster local brew lager that Peter left behind last time he came to visit. They had a lot to bond over between their tragic orphan backgrounds and love-life failings.

Parker, not Quill. But same, probably.

Clint startles at a sudden pounding on his door that stops at three, then two more for good measure before he can even cross over to open it. Then promptly shuts it again because there's a shirtless redhead at his threshold in leather pants and combat boots that could pass for a middle-aged punk rocker.

He spares three seconds to take a calming breath, opening the door again at the disgruntled baritone call of “What? I knocked first!”

This time he hides his surprise behind a tight smile, turning as the man waltzes in past him without further invitation. Must be the difference between Demons and Vampires.

\“Daimon, hi. Why are you--”

Billy said you found a talking cat.” Hellstrom turns, his brow pinched and mouth turned down in an almost scowl. But that's probably just his resting bitch face.

Clint peeks out into the hall before pushing his door closed. “Uh, no? I found a cat that I need to talk. Why, did you lose a talking cat?” This conversation was already weird and they'd only just started.

Daimon turns back, inspecting his surroundings. “Not recently.”

And Clint has so, _so_ many questions.

Said cat makes an appearance, strolling from the kitchen to investigate, giving Daimon what Clint suspects is a thoughtful once over before slinking further to rub against his ankle like they're old pals.

He's not jealous, nope.

He clears his throat. “So is there like a spell or something that can help with that? Talking cat I mean.”

Hellstrom reaches down to scoop the feline up, it goes boneless in his hands before he tucks it in the crook of one arm like a baby, purring loud enough that even Clint can hear it with his less fancy 'at home' aids in. It proves his suspicions that cats are demonic beings.

“Or something.” Daimon answers.

Clint waits for more then sighs as Daimon just looks at him with an arched brow, like he expects more detail before providing him with his assistance.

“There's a dog too, Bucky's tracking it down now. They witnessed a murder.” He reaches up to scratch at his scalp, trying to quickly piece the words together in his head before he says them out loud. “We've been after this guy for awhile. He's killed six people so far, but there haven't been any real people witnesses. Nothing on camera, nothing suspicious.”

“Since when do the Avengers do police work?”

Clint feels his neck heat up, a mixture of embarrassment and anger rising in his chest that he refuses to let out. Daimon seems to sense it regardless, because his expression softens even before the archer speaks.

“Since now. One of those murders happened in my building, a friend, right under my nose.”

Daimon hums after a moment, leaning to set the cat down gently. “If you were any other Avenger, Clint Barton, I'd think you were spurred by wounded pride. But that's not the sort of heart you have.”

For the life of him, Clint can't tell if that's praise or an insult before Hellstrom continues.

“I'll help.”

“Oh... thank you?.”

“Mm, I wouldn't.” Daimon rubs his palms together, turning on his heel to face him completely, he speaks, voice a deep sort of rumble that Clint can almost feel in his own chest, like someone an apartment over has their bass on too high while his hearing aids are out. It seems a bit like that too because even if Hellstrom's lips are moving and there are words coming out it doesn't make a lick of sense, even if he tries to read them. It's probably Latin or something, it's always Latin in the movies.

He draws something in the air with his finger, blazing crimson trailing in its wake then fading before he taps his fingertip right between Clint's eyes, leaving him rocking back with a scrunched nose.

There's nothing for a moment, just Clint rubbing away the phantom sensation of heat between his brows, trying to play catch-up on what exactly just happened. “Well that was anticlimactic... what do I do now?

Daimon gestures to the ginger at his feet. “Talk to the cat.”

Okay. Right. Clint crouches down, wiggling his fingers in what he hopes is an enticing way to get the cat's attention. It works for the most part, though there are a few seconds of feigned disinterest before it slinks over to him, sliding it's side against his knee and leaving a smear of shedding fur in its wake.

“Hey there sweetheart, you wanna talk to me?”

The cat looks up at him, sharp and sudden and knowing, whiskers twitching back before opening its mouth and--

“Merow?”

Clint sinks back, shaking his head. “Well. That didn't work.”

Daimon exhales a sigh, his hands dropping to his hips. “In my defense, it's been a while since I've used that spell.”

Lucky barks a too late alert from the kitchen as his front door swings open and Clint is about done with the number of unexpected visitors tonight--

But it's Bucky, with a ratty white dog tucked under his arm and his hair sort of windblown in a romance novel cover way that has Clint forgiving the intrusion almost instantly. Also... dog. Totally forgivable.

“Don't you lock your door?” Bucky says in lieu of a greeting, grey murder-stare zeroing in on Hellstrom in an instant. He hip-checks the door closed behind him.

“Don't you knock?” Clint huffs back, rising to his feet as the cat skitters off at the appearance of yet another dog, vanishing somewhere beneath his beat-up couch.

“I knocked.” Daimon supplies with a showy smile, rounding on Bucky like they're two roosters in what promises to be a cockfight.

Clint has enough mind to mouth _'what the fuck?'_ to himself before stepping forward to snatch the dog from Bucky's arms. It goes happy and wiggling, tilting it's head up to lick beneath his chin. He loves it already.

“Hellstrom,” Bucky says.

“Barnes.” Daimon replies.

Clint doesn't have a knife to cut the tension with, but he thinks he could. Instead, he just shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“So uh, are you two friends or something?”

“Yes.” “No.” They both say at the same time, and he can't quite sort out who said what before the little muppet of a dog in his arms announces. “ _Hungry!”_ In a sharp bark like tone that he can almost blame on his imagination.

 _“Hi, hello, hungry. Can we eat? Something smells good.”_ There's no bark to it this time, no real sound at all so he's pretty certain it's in his head. Except the dog is looking up at him with earnest eyes like it's waiting for a reply.

“Uh.” He's in shock, he knows what it feels like-- when the world narrows down and his skin goes all clammy because his blood pressure suddenly decides it wants to fuck right off. Weird things happen to him all the time, this isn't even the weirdest, he'd even braced himself for it. But usually, all that weird shit that happens to him is bad, or at least in some grayish area of unpleasant _do-not-want._

But holy shit this dog is talking to him.

He must look like a deer in headlights because Bucky is suddenly in his space, coaxing him out of his stupor with the touch of cool metal against his cheek. “Barton, hey? Ya look like you've seen a ghost.”

Gosh he's pretty up close.

“ _Yeah, I guess as human's go ya could probably do worse_.” There's another voice, and now he's certain it's in his head. Low and haughty and-- do animals have accents?

Clint turns his head just enough to meet the bright yellow gaze of the cat perched on the back of his couch. He pats Bucky's shoulder like he doesn't already have the other man's attention.

“Buck... the animals are talking to me and I'm pretty sure they can read my mind.”

“ _Yeah, sorry hero but no, you said that part out loud._ ” The cat hops down, clearly confident that Clint has a decent enough hold on the dog that he can venture close again, this time rubbing up against Bucky's leg, purring loudly.

Bucky's just kinda staring at him, both a little fondly and a little like he's lost his mind and well... that's normal, isn't it?

Daimon clears his throat like he's interrupting a moment, clapping his hands together. “Well then! my work here is done. Good luck detectives.”

Bucky tries to turn on him with what might be a snarl but Clint curls the fingers of his free hand into his jacket collar. Not to stop him because (yeah right) but it at least slows him down, spares him a _look._

And Bucky goes all soft again and Clint... Clint doesn't know what to do with that. But no, he really is pretty and this time he doesn't say it out loud. He hopes.

Daimon's gone in a flash of fire and theatrics, opening a portal rather than using the door, leaving smoldering marks against the wood floor as he departs and Clint can only scrunch his nose up before he can focus on Bucky who is still standing too close because he hasn't released his grip on the collar of his jacket yet.

“I, uh... did I really say that out loud?” Is all Clint can think to say, heat churning in his chest.


End file.
